


There Might Be a Friend In Me Maybe

by AnAngryCat (Gummy_Squid)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 11:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gummy_Squid/pseuds/AnAngryCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's difficult to look forward to something when you're certain the outcome will be tragic and there isn't any way you can change it. Take that bullet wound in you're leg you got today, for example, you knew it was coming, you followed your own trail to the exact spot where it would happen but despite knowing that that direction would yield poor results, why didn't you think to simply change the direction? It seems so simple, you think, but when you actually turn your foot away from the orange path in front of you, it always seemed to turn right back somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Might Be a Friend In Me Maybe

     It's difficult to look forward to something when you're certain the outcome will be tragic and there isn't any way you can change it. Take that bullet wound in you're leg you got today, for example, you knew it was coming, you followed your own trail to the exact spot where it would happen but despite knowing that that direction would yield poor results, why didn't you think to simply change the direction? It seems so simple, you think, but when you actually turn your foot away from the orange path in front of you, it always seemed to turn right back somehow.

     It's almost like when you were younger, how you tried to get away from your home, from the slums and the gangs that ruled them, from life of crime someone of your position did seem, and actually was, destined for. You tried so hard, you read books, busted your ass at school, even almost graduated with a GED, but somehow you fell backwards every time and became stuck in that life. You killed other kids just like you just because they wore a certain color and because you were told to, or because you were hungry, and also because you were afraid to die yourself. 

     You glance at your scars, most of which were caused by fights, bullet and knife wounds and such, but there were a few smaller distinctive scars among the larger ones that were not from any other enemy but yourself. You wonder, if you were so afraid of dying back then, why were you so willing to if only by your own hand. You slide your arms under the hospital sheet, even if the scars are quite evident, they weren't a topic of interest you would prefer.

     The hospital sheets were rough and stained with piss and blood, the cot he was laying on had lumps and pricks, and overall, despite this gang being better accommodating than any other you were in, the healthcare still seemed like a back alley shit hole like what you had known in your youth. You lift your leg a bit, it's sore but it's fixed. At least the old man can fix you up pretty well.

     You take a swig of the whiskey on the stand next to your cot, you hear a whiny voice from across the room of some other poor injured fool on their cot, "Yo Fin, toss me that, I'm in pain!"

"Tough it out, Itch," you say as you take another swig.

"You only have that little leg wound, My ribs are broke, I can barely breath!"

"Then stop talking," you do feel slightly bad, knowing Itchy was a little guy, being punched in the gut like he was must of hurt. You're used to that sort of pain but you're also not in the state to just get up and hand him the whiskey. 

     It had been years since you joined this weirdly attired mafia. You aren't too friendly with anyone in it, you watched your friends in past gangs get shot down far too many times to want anymore of them. Even with your new ability to see who dies and who doesn't, the pain of memories and heartbreak was the sort of agony you could not handle, though you would not admit that out loud. It was a shame too, you did enjoy some of the odd kindness of some of these crooked faced strangers. Though the majority of The Felt were jack asses, there were some that you liked the company of, even if you did make the conversations brief. Normally, you would just watch their trails: Sawbuck cooking some grease trap in the kitchen, Die skulking around, Eggs doing... something, and everyone else simply going about their lives. You learned a lot about them this way but it was lonely just watching the trails of these people and not attempting actual interaction with them, but it was better this way.

     You stare at the moldy ceiling above you and sigh, Itchy is still wailing about his pain, there are a few other cots but they're empty. It seems as though you'd be stuck in this room alone with that chatterbox when you hear the door creak open. Itchy immediately starts complaining to who ever it is to get him something to subdue his pain. You turn your head over and see one of those crooked face people you enjoy the company of, especially this particular crooked face. He looks at you and smiles, his grin is very toothy and all together his appearance was awkward but he was sweet to you for no reason at all, even though you were very rude to everyone. 

    Sometimes he'd bring you food, well, he'd bring you raw meat he probably tore a part from some animal he found in the woods. He's terrifying at times but also cute, in a weird barbaric kind of way, like a puppy that goes to get the frisby and returns it happily for you in its mouth except in this case it's Trace retrieving someone's severed limb and handing it to you expecting you'll eat it right then and there. Though the gestures were endearing, you really didn't know how to break it to him that you preferred your meat well done.

"Hey, Trace," you say to the gangly man smiling at you, "give this to Itchy so he can shut up," you hold up the bottle of whisky.

     Trace does as he asks and at long last Itchy shuts up. Without being invited to, Trace pulls up a chair and sits next to your bed.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Sitting."

     You roll your eyes, you honestly can't tell if he's joking most of the time or if he really is that blunt. It was annoying at times, even though you could see what he'll do, it was unlike the others where you could watch their actions and learn about them, Trace was different, he was hard to read. "Yeah, I can see that, I guess I meant why are you sitting next to me what do you want from me?" you try to be as specific as possible so Trace wouldn't make anymore jokes.

"I wanted to see how you were doing." His face is placid and it was frustrating that he wouldn't give you an answer you wanted. After probably seeing your frustration, he adds, "I... carried you back here, after you were shot. You passed out, maybe you remember?"

"I don't, to be honest, I think I was drunk."

"Yes, you went to the bar with some of us and we got into a fight over there. You were crying before that, last night I mean."

"No I wasn't."

"Yes. You were." His eyes stare at you, you almost forgot he knows exactly what you did and it makes you wonder what else he sees you do. "You cry a lot, mostly when no one is around and you think no one can see. I don't think it's from all the gun injuries you get, is it?"

    You remember why you cried that particular time, something about a boy on the news that looked like someone you knew, someone you killed for money or sold drugs to something like that but you don't remember, other times its a smell that reminds you of the hole you grew up in, the smell of blood, bread, and metal, and sometimes it's the question of when this ugly orange trail will finally end.

"Yeah, what about it," you answer abrasively. You know the tough guy demeanor doesn't work on Trace, but if he really wanted to talk about feelings, he should have gone to Die or some other pansy.  
"I think maybe," he hesitated, "for someone who has the power to look towards the future, don't you think you focus on the past so much?"

     He had a point, but again, you didn't want to hear it, "Why do you care about what I do anyways. You carry me after I get shot, you stare at me while I cry apparently, just what is it that you want?"

     Trace gawked, you could tell he was having a hard time trying to find a reason why, he said finally, "I think, after looking at your past so much, maybe it'd be nice for you to just have someone be kind to you for a change?" You look at him stupidly, you see this guy eat raw human meat and tear open jugulars with nothing but his teeth and yet he's here trying to butter you up for some reason by acting like he actually cares.

"Worry about yourself, I don't need anyone, and you're not fooling me with what ever the hell this is you're doing right now."

"huh?"

"Next time I get shot, I'll drag my own ass back, thanks."

"oh, um, okay. Sorry?"

"don't give me that phony kind shit, who knows what you really want from me."

"I'm pretty sure I want to be your friend."

"Go fuck yourself, go make friends with the neighborhood kids like you usually do, you sick freak."

"It's kind of hard to be friends with food, you know."

     You look at him disgustedly, you weren't actually sure what he did with the children he takes and with the truth being revealed, you aren't sure if you should be sick or relieved it wasn't your previous thought.   
You decide you've had enough of this enigma of a man for one day and tell him to scram. Trace gets up and does as you ask, though there is a genuine look of sadness on his face as he turns back and tells you that he'll "see you later then".

     You then feel guilty about how you acted. Being defensive and paranoid has helped you in the past to avoid other freaks and weirdos, but something tells you that Trace actually did want to be your friend. Itchy was snoring, he had apparently passed out a while ago, which was good considering you would rather not have him spread across the entire gang the fact that you cry all the time.

     At that moment, you feel a tear roll down your cheek, you wipe it away but more come. beginning to feel congested as well, you wonder what was the reason for it this time anyways, you thought, was it something triggering a memory or an emotion you've felt in the past, was it the pain in your leg, what was it that made you feel so weak? 

     You cover your head with the old sheet, feeling too agitated to wipe your face. It didn't matter anyways, if someone laughed at him for being human then he'd laugh at them for the same reason when they find they're in a full body cast for months.

     You sniffed and cringed at how pathetic you think you are but maybe you're just lonely.


End file.
